CHAPTER THIRTY - The Sprint West

I saw no movement out of Lance. His chest was rising and falling rhythmically with his breathing and it was obvious he had fallen asleep. I penned a quick note telling him to stay put, wedged it between his seat and gas tank, and duck-walked the bike onto the shoulder where a slight downhill slope allowed gravity to slowly propel Ol’ Huck away from the overpass where we had been resting.

Once sufficiently away from the sleeping Lance, I fired up and slipped it into second gear, released the clutch on an idling engine and headed to the terminal. According to the clock on my radio, Kim should have landed 5 minutes ago, with time to have walked through the terminal and out onto the loading zone. Which is exactly where I found her, tight black jeans, black boots with her turquoise boot straps, and her one canvas Harley bag – pre-formed to fit the saddlebag which I kept empty for her visits, except for her leather jacket, gloves and helmet. I’ll admit I offered to bring those with me throughout the trip for her convenience, but with an unmentioned hope that they would come in handy with occasional backseaters along the way.

After so many days on the road with only nightly phone calls to keep in touch, she looked great. I noticed the confused look on her face as she scanned behind me looking for Lance. I flipped off the ignition on the handlebar and coasted to a stop immediately in front of her, like I have a dozen or more times in the past – one more airport curbside pickup so we can ride off on another adventure.

We had found many years ago that our best combination of solo rides, guy rides and our two-up rides are best done by my riding off from home and picking her up after she’s flown in someplace. We’ve done Sturgis trips this way, picking her up in Rapid City, seeing the rally, riding through the Beartooth Mountains and Yellowstone, dropping her off in Jackson Hole for her flight home. It keeps us together for the best parts of the rides and still allows some solo riding for me – both of which are in important part of my riding ritual.

“I left him sleeping under a bridge” was all I said, as I leaned the bike over onto its kickstand and got off the bike. No way I was gonna just let her pack her gear and climb onto the bike. This required a huge hug and long kiss. An obligatory ass-grab was important, too – didn’t want to appear TOO changed after the long absence!

We exchanged the usual back and forth about how the flight was and how the trip has been going, though she knew most of that incrementally each night. I took her bag and forced it into the sidebag – a little more stuffed than she’s traveled with in the past, but the soft-sided bag and the hard-sided saddlebag cooperated enough to close and latch the lid. She wasted no time donning her helmet, choosing to leave the gloves and jacket rolled and tied to the top of my tourpack. The South Florida heat left no question they wouldn’t be used except for any night riding we might get into over the next few days. With another kiss and tight hug, we threw legs over the bike and roared off, sneaking our way between the haphazardly parked cars in front of the tiny rural airport loading zone, and made our way back to the access road overpass where Lance was still sleeping. Or at least was until he heard my approach, lifting his head up only to recognize I had a passenger. His agonizingly slow stretch and attempt to reach a sitting position spoke volumes about his condition. Looking into Kim’s eyes as she got off the bike told me she recognized the dilemma ahead of us, but, pre-warned, she kept her comments to herself, as I watched her climb the concrete embankment to go give him a hug and sit next to him.

“I hear you’ve been terrorizing the ladies all the way down from North Carolina!” Kim leaned in to give him a shoulder nudge as she smiled.

“Only the ones I could find – I’m thinking there were a few I missed along the way.” His humor was still quick, and his delivery stoic and dry. I stood near the bikes listening. “I do appreciate you loaning him to me for a while.” Lance was looking in my direction, and smiled. Guys don’t pay too many compliments of each other on rides – mostly digs and jabs and sarcastic comments, but with Kim at his side, he allowed a moment of sincerity.

“Got him out of my hair for a while so I could play with Julio, the lawn boy!” she said. Julio was our little running joke over the past few years. There was no Julio, at least not that I was aware of, but was the butt of many jokes between us. Phone calls with no one on the other end… blamed on Julio. Stray cigarette butt on the back porch – Julio. Late night headaches – once again, Julio was to blame. God knows if we were ever legitimately introduced to anyone named Julio, he’d be shocked at our amused reaction with each other at his expense.

I was looking in my tourpack, lid laid back against its tether line, with my travel atlas splayed open showing south Florida. “I think we’re gonna lay low in Fort Lauderdale a few days, honey.” Our eyes made contact while Lance was brushing off debris from his jeans where he had rolled over a few times in the crud that accumulates under a bridge. His actions were labored and tedious. I briefly glanced in Lance’s direction and raised my eyebrows. She took the hint. I had told her several times over the past few days that maybe we were pushing too hard and Lance was due for a break. I suppose Fort Lauderdale wasn’t the worst place we could pick to hole up a while, and Kim had heard me rave about the Tiki Bar at the Bahia Cabana before, so all was not lost.

“Did you bring your bathing suit?” I asked.

“I’m vacationing in Florida, silly! Of course I did.” She stood up brushing off her butt as she careened down the slope. By the time she got within whisper distance she leaned in and continued, “But it seems to me you said there was an all-night Hottub at that Tiki place - I may not need it!”

The inference wasn’t lost on me, but I silently doubted she’d go tubbing au’natural with strangers in Fort Lauderdale, but who knows? Weirder things have happened… with strangers!

I gave Lance directions to Fort Lauderdale. Basically the Interstate to Broward Blvd,, and over to the beach. It wasn’t the scenic route, but in South Florida the traffic was usually so bad, you’d prefer to make tracks for wherever you’re going and just haul-ass. I wanted to keep an eye on Lance, and be able to talk to Kim over my shoulder as we went. I filled her in on the growing pain problems and stamina issues. And she agreed that a rest for a few days was in order. We still had friends in Fort Lauderdale, and my mother lived there, so there was plenty to do. Besides, a Cabana Bar hotel on Fort Lauderdale Beach can be a lot of fun, not just a backup plan.

Off the Interstate, I pulled back out front – this was my old stomping grounds, having grown up in Lauderdale and living here for many years with Kim. Heading into the salt air on Las Olas Blvd, over the Intracoastal waterway and seeing the ocean as we crested the bridge brought back memories – good and bad.

At the very top of the Las Olas bridge, over the Intracoastal, I could look over my left shoulder and see the old homestead where I grew up. It has since been torn down and replaced with a new multi-million dollar estate, but it will always be 1969 to me as I look over there. I was a young kid, just entering puberty, living in Lauderdale on the water. I used to swim to work across the waterway to the Ski School opposite our house, tending the boats and cleaning the dog shit from the security dogs every morning. Life was good! Even as I thought that, I had to admit life was still good. Here I was with my bride of many years, and a good friend, on Harleys, aimlessly wandering the country. I had to smile knowing this was a dream many shared, and few realized.

This feeling, alone, was what underscored the entire trip with Lance. I wasn’t one who had to polish up his bike every morning. Far from the ‘look-at-me’ type of rider, I was content to just be on the road, alone or with friends. My bike was run-of-the-mill, rarely washed, with accessories that accentuated the comforts of the road and allowed for expanded storage. Missing was the chrome and neon and baubles that I detested as a marker for the crowd that has grown over the years – the show-off bikers.

Over the years, I had run into few road warriors who shared the disdain for the show-offs. These I counted as my friends, and I was acutely aware that they were scattered all over the East Coast making it difficult to go off on impromptu rides with my riding buddies.

Riding down the beach of Fort Lauderdale, I knew I was right where I wanted to be.

Over the next 2 days, Kim and I visited friends, relatives and old haunts. Lance slept for much of it, punctuated by a three-hour doctor’s visit with colleague of his Oncologist back home. Pending more positive results from blood work, he confirmed the disease was progressing rapidly, and Lance’s decision not to aggressively pursue a medical alternative was forcing a rapid deterioration of his condition. Lance was, however, determined to see as much of the country as possible while he could. The inevitable was coming anyway, and the treatment they prescribed was equally as debilitating. He was successful in getting new prescriptions filled and a half-dozen vials of blood drawn. The results of those tests to be given over the phone from wherever we were at the time.

We spent our second night in the hottub late at night alone – just the three of us. Lance had not even looked twice at the several beach bunnies that hung out at the tiki bar – a sign that things were on his mind. Without any prompting from me, Lance suggested we blow off the Keys – something that would take us at least 3-4 days to enjoy properly – and start our journey out west as soon as we could. He looked apologetically at Kim, who was openly anticipating the Keys visit, but all of us had been there before and I practically grew up in the keys, having visited several times a year for many years.

“Listen, Lance.” Kim spoke slowly, which was a sign of her seriousness. “I have three days before I need to be home, and I can change my ticket to fly out of anywhere I want at the end of three days. This is YOUR trip, and I want to be part of it, but only if you’re doing what you want to do. OK?”

The trip moved rapidly from that point on. We left the keys to the rooms on the beds at 4:30 the next morning, and rode over to Hwy 27 and up the center of the state past Lake Okeechobee, invitingly close to Fort McCoy where we had spent last week with Jules, and determinedly rode the flatlands of Florida toward the West. By noon we were in the Panhandle of Florida having Lunch at an oyster bar. By Dinner we were approaching Mobile, Alabama before Lance admitted he couldn’t go on any further. We rode in silence, especially Kim, who hated these kinds of marathon rides. Here she was in Alabama instead of the Keys but she kept a great attitude, always encouraging and always smiling. Gas stops every two hours allowed us to check on Lance, who seemed strong and in good spirits, but progressively getting more and more tired with each fill up. Finally, outside Mobile, we suggested stopping for dinner, but Lance begged for a motel.

I needed time to do some badly needed maintenance anyway - the bike was beginning to act up a bit. Small oil leaks were beginning to show at gas and meal stops, and I suspected a primary seal was beginning to leak. Petey, the old ’53 Panhead, was performing admirably, though was blowing oil slightly in an occasional blue haze out of the pipes. Lance painfully checked the levels at each stop and once in a while added a little from the quart he always kept in my sidebag. I used synthetic oils in mine, so we had to always keep two different quarts of oil handy.

In our hotel room that night, Kim and I agreed the trip had taken on a decidedly desperate sprint for the western part of the states, so he could experience it before he became unable to ride. We estimated he could still have weeks, but I kept silent thinking it was far less. Even Lance was silent on the prospects of how long he felt he could ride. Always upbeat, always positive, always looking west.

In what had to have been a hard decision, Kim suggested she fly out of New Orleans so we could be free to forge on toward Colorado – the one place on this trip that Lance spoke of most often. So on the morning of her fourth day with us, I left Lance once again sleeping, this time in his motel room, while I took Kim to the airport, fighting rush hour traffic and the urge to just turn around and meet her back home in a few days. We parted knowing that the overall trip was going to be shorter than planned, so with a final hug and slow kiss, she headed back home to await my nightly phone calls. I slowly drove back to the motel for what was to be expected to be another long super-slab ride, whose intention was purely to tick away the miles.

Three days later we’re slipping past Amarillo, Texas, at a gas stop, as I watched Lance fall off his bike in front of the pumps. He made no attempt to get up.

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